The men who love my 70s records
never love me.

They'll listen to me whisper softly
about reverbed guitars
cheesy love lyrics
& 35 piece drum sets
But they won't listen to me scream passionately
about flowers in gun barrels
spiked Kool-Aid
& revolutions from my bed

The men who love my 70s records.
never love my records.
They take Blondie, Queen, and Crosby, Stills, and Nash
but they'll leave the rest of me
waiting inside the sleeve cover.


They hate it when I

listen to 50s records
to make myself pretty

listen to 60s records
to make myself wrongfully nostalgic

or when I listen to 90s records
to give the anxiety a way out of my body:
in a bellow;
in a howl;
in a screech.

They hate it when I listen

to soundtracks from musicals
when I scrub my home spotless, top to bottom

to hip-hop's finest
when I'm crying so hard I can do nothing else

or to synthpop on repeat: for black lipstick days, cigarettes for breakfast days, and for when I stare into the mirror till the seconds turn to minutes turn to hours turn to days

They want me to play:
Play the records
Play the part
Play with them

So I'll talk about the introduction of organs to rock music.
I'll talk about blues-based guitar riffs.
and I'll talk about compressed bass tones, disco drum machines, and drug-inspired kitsch.
But only with the man
Who loves my 70s records so much
that he makes it through
the entire 8 and a half minutes
of American Pie




or perhaps
one and a half minutes
of me